Dying by inches

IT REALLY was a saddening sight, watching a friend dying by inches.

Of course, we all knew that Mike’s motor neurone disease would eventually prove fatal – people rarely last more than five years after diagnosis.

What I hadn’t bargained on, I suppose, is the onset of his incapacity, its speed and its totality.

By the end he couldn’t move his arms or his legs; he needed help to do literally everything. He couldn’t even breathe without the aid of an oxygen mask.

And yet just a few months ago we were still managing to go to the pub together – he needed some help, it’s true, but nevertheless… We even had Christmas Day lunch together at a restaurant.

Our love and respect goes out to poor Helen, his wife, who looked after him with such complete devotion as to make herself almost ill with exhaustion.

But what strikes me, above all, is the fine line between the quality of life, of deriving some satisfaction, some pleasure, some hope and the point where there is no quality left at all.

When we last saw him, about three weeks ago, he was tiring badly, but still holding on, still able to talk, still able to share a joke.

He was our friend and we will miss him dearly.